


Of Morals and Backbone

by Lohrendrell



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Pre-Relationship, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:09:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27895840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lohrendrell/pseuds/Lohrendrell
Summary: During a self-imposed heist, Lambert and Aiden come across a girl who helps them, and who asks for their help.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 34
Collections: The Witcher Quick Fic #01





	Of Morals and Backbone

**Author's Note:**

> Written for The Witcher Quick Fic Challenge

Breaking into the baron’s home was easy enough. A few _axii_ here and there, not nearly as much brutality as Lambert was used to, and they passed all the guards and other security measures the baron took to protect his luxurious home.

This wasn’t the kind of job Lambert usually took. He wasn’t one to meddle in common people’s affairs, no matter their race or social status, one of the few witcher rules he followed to the letter. But Aiden had convinced him. “It’s not a killing job,” the Cat had said, “we’re just retrieving evidence. Think of the people he imprisoned. The people he sold. You and I should be more offended than anyone else on their behalf.”

That wasn’t _all_ he did to persuade Lambert into this stupid mission, of course. Lambert wasn’t one to let himself be convinced that easily, and Aiden knew exactly when to push those lips into that tiny, mocking pout, the fucking asshole, and when to make that kicked kitty face with those wide yellow-green eyes. There wasn’t an ounce of innocence in the other witcher’s being, and yet, the _appearance_ of it was enough to convince Lambert to do anything.

Lambert wasn’t _sure_ Aiden knew the full effect he had on Lambert, though sometimes Lambert wondered. The little things got to him the most: the quick bumps of their knees when they sat down together to eat, the full displays of trust when Aiden turned around on his bed roll, giving his back to Lambert, and fell sound asleep--as if the history of their schools didn’t matter, as if Lambert weren’t an _enemy_. Or the easy smiles. The Cat was the most easy going person Lambert had ever known, which was in equal parts confusing and refreshing, especially when they had to deal with contractors that got on Lambert’s nerves.

Lambert wasn’t one to display any kind of weakness so easily, though, so he contented himself in living in this nebulous space, where Aiden’s presence was always welcoming, but Lambert couldn’t be sure _how much_ of it he could enjoy it; how much he could push.

It didn’t matter, though, none of that. For now, here they were: just past the gates of the baron’s estate.

His property was a stony, grimly-looking thing. There were modern lamps, those that used some kind of fuel Lambert didn’t know what to call, decorating the inner walls. The stony architecture of the place made it resemble a small haunted castle, and Lambert wondered where rich people found their taste in home decoration—certainly somewhere deep in their own inner selves, to really highlight their shitty personalities.

“What now?” Lamber asked.

“Now we get into the mansion, into his private quarters.”

They didn’t bother whispering or covering their presence in any way. If any guard came across them, they would just put them to sleep before they could alert the others. This job was all about a quick come and an ever quicker go, no need to engage in any sort of brawl.

“Do you have any idea where his private quarters are?” Lambert asked.

“No,” Aiden replied, winking at him, the bastard, “but if my exposure to rich snobs has taught me anything, it will probably be in the last floor, as far away from his servants as he can.”

Talk was that the baron didn’t make his fortune out of trading horses, as he often claimed to the four winds. A self-made man, the baron would boast to anyone who would listen, whose business expertise helped him raise an empire in horse trading; he sold the best horses, had an eye for picking the best one to breed, and was overall a genius in his trade.

Perhaps the baron didn’t lie, per se—Lambert took a quick look at the horses in the stables at the back of the mansion as they passed through, and indeed they looked sturdy and well maintained, certainly looked expensive. But that wasn’t the whole truth. Horse trading wasn’t the only activity in which he invested his money; he also dwelled on trading people.

Aiden had come across this information during a regular hunt for a noonwraith. His investigation led to something despicable that he wouldn’t explain in detail, no matter how much Lambert asked. The bottom line was this, though: Aiden found evidence that people were being enslaved, kept in some kind of shitty, abandoned warehouse, and sold in secret, as if they were sacks of cabbage, or less valuable than that.

The baron was a slaver walking free in the Northern Kingdoms, something Aiden could not abide to. Damn morals of that Cat. Sometimes he could be worse than Geralt.

“What now?” Lambert asked again once they were inside the mansion.

“Now, my darling, we find evidence of his illegal activities.” The plan was to deliver them to the Count’s Instigator, someone Lambert had no idea why Aiden deposited so much trust to actually start a case against the baron. “A notebook with trading notes would probably do it. Stolen goods from the people he kidnapped would also do good, but I doubt he would have anything of the sort; he keeps to poor peasants, people who have nothing valuable to their name.”

“Their own freedom was valuable,” Lambert said.

“Indeed,” Aiden said, giving him a strange look, his cat pupils dilating and a smile creeping up his face.

Lambert had to look away. He coughed. “Not that it would serve as a fucking evidence.”

“Some other thing, then,” Aiden said. “Maybe a—”

“Aargh!”

They were cut short just as they entered a new room by a gasp and the noise of someone falling over themselves on the floor. It was a girl. She had spotted them as quickly as they spotted him, and startled at the strangers carrying swords that suddenly entered what appeared to be the kitchen.

She couldn’t be older than fifteen or sixteen. She had been sorting and cutting up mushrooms. She fell back on her own feet as she tried to distance herself from them; there was a knife in her hand, but she didn’t think to yield it as an attempted form of intimidation. She just clutched it tighter, watching them with bugged eyes as they took two steps into the kitchen, enough to cross almost the entire room.

Aiden made the sign of _axii_ once more, but Lambert stopped him. He hated the sight of a frightened child, and he hated even more to stun them into oblivious obedience.

He was making the sign of _somne_ when the girl spoke.

“W-wit-tchers,” she stuttered, her heartbeat so wild it was almost deafening to their senses. “T-there ain’t no m-monsters here. N-none for you, at least.”

“We aren’t here for this kind of monster,” Aiden said, “but a monster nonetheless.”

She nodded, looked to the door on their right. Lambert thought she was perhaps planning a stupid escape, but she surprised him by saying instead, “You’ll find him in the quarters at the back. You might hear wails from one of the bedrooms. He takes girls there sometimes, before he sells them.”

Lambert closed his fists tightly. Aiden nodded. “We’re not here to kill him,” the Cat said, keeping his cool, as always—an extraordinary feat, for a Cat. “We’re here for… evidence.”

The girl nodded. Her heartbeat never slowed down, but her gaze never left theirs.

“Two floors up, down the corridor by the left. At the smaller office room, in the tiny wooden box behind the drawer furthest away from the window. He keeps notes, but I don’t know what they say, he kept me before I could learn how to read.”

The witchers nodded. “Come on,” Aiden said, and hurried up the stairs. Lambert took a second to stare at the girl, at the way her lips trembled and her wide hazel eyes filled with water. She was on the verge of tears, terrified—of them, or of the baron, or of both—but she didn’t emanate the smell of lies.

He followed Aiden.

Retrieving the notebook was easy enough. It was just as the girl had said, and they even found more stuff to take to the Count’s Instigator: a map with scribbles all over, detailing the routes the slaver routes the baron controlled; contracts with the baron’s signature; a small box with what appeared to be locks of hair—the man was a psycho. Not the first Lambert had come across in his lifetime.

They made their way back down the stairs easily enough. There were no guards inside the house, and the few servants they could hear didn’t cross their path.

They were making their way back through the kitchen when they spotted her again. This time, she was on her foot, waiting for them.

“Take me with you,” she said, stuffing her chest in what she probably intended to look like bravery. Her fingers trembled and her voice wavered, but her gaze never left them.

Aiden and Lambert stopped in their tracks. Aiden looked at Lambert. Lambert looked at Aiden. A quick exchange was made in the form of shrugs: take her, and her absence will certainly be noted, as well as the robbery; don’t take her, leave her to rot in this gods-awful life she was kidnapped into, would be the same as signing her death sentence. They were witchers, they didn’t meddle on humans’ affairs; they were already meddling, and this was no mere familial drama.

They looked back at the girl.

To ask a couple of witchers to take her with them—Lambert respected her backbone, at least. But then again, what kind of fate could be so terrible one would wish for the company of two witchers?

Her bravery was short lived. Her eyes round bulged again, watery, pleading, full of fear.

“Please.”

Lambert noticed she had a tiny sack filled with what smelled like mushrooms, meat, and other provisions by her foot. She also had put on a coat and a pair of ramshackled boots.

What fate could be worse to make someone beg to be taken by a witcher?

Aiden sighed, cursed, walked away. “You decide, Wolf.”

“What?” Lambert asked, incredulous. “Why me?”

Aiden didn’t answer, but the look he gave him said enough: _I can’t_.

Damn Cats and their weird morals. Breaking into a baron’s house and, therefore, disrespecting the witchers’ code was fine, but saving a girl from… from whatever this was?

Lambert’s gaze locked with the girl’s.

“Please,” she said again.

“Ah, what the hell.” He took the bag by her feet, and accepted it when she clung to his arm. “Come on. Quick. And be quiet.”

The night air felt chiller than before, but maybe it was just the sudden adrenaline rush. The girl kept clutching his forearm tightly, as if afraid he would disappear if she ever let go of it. Other than that, the night was just as before, when they invaded: stony walls and grim-looking lights. The guards were still either sleeping or ignoring them, their signs still very much active.

“Keep calm,” Lambert said, perhaps a bit too harshly; the girl startled, “and don’t hold so tight, I’m not going anywhere.”

“What’s your name?” Aiden asked in a gentle tone.

“Analia.”

“Well, Analia,” Aiden said, “do you know how to ride a horse?”

She nodded.

“What the fuck? Are we stealing a horse now? What about the whole—” he imitated Aiden’s voice “—not raising suspicion, getting the evidence to the Instigator and disappearing the fuck out of here.”

“She needs it. She can’t go with us, and she can’t flee fast enough on foot.”

Lambert huffed. The grip on his forearm eased a bit.

“I can go north,” Analia said, “to Novigrad. I know the baron won’t search for me there, he fears the free cities.”

Aiden nodded. “Good plan.”

From there on, using _axii_ on the horses was easy enough. They were supposed to only grab one for Analia and get the fuck off, but the baron did possess some fine examples of several breeds, and what the hell, right? The guy was a slave trader motherfucker; witchers and illiterate slave girls didn’t make enough money to ever buy one of those.

“I’m naming my mare Analia,” Aiden said once they were in the woods, far away from the baron’s estate.

“Mine will be named Lion, master witchers, for the beast in your medallions.”

Lambert started to say, “It’s not a—”

Aiden cut him. “We’re flattering.” He smiled at the girl, who smiled back at him. “When you get to Novigrad, find a priestess named Biljiana. She will help you.”

“Thank you.”

Lambert smirked. Sentimental little fucker, that Cat.

(He didn’t tell them the name he picked for his new stallion.)


End file.
